a detrimental & detoxified december w/ Jason Neese (.2)

-i in the you form, am in the are, you're in the our,
or a meglamaniac
or god all over your face-

an orgy of information is exchanged
but nothing is scene.
every one backs away from you with cocktail trays in hand.

it's discouraging but you deal with it in a typical way that ends
with a 120,000 dollar a year salary but unfortunately,
everyone that dies around you
has a heaven to go to.

everything changes
for ten minutes,

if you could say things to yourself with a straight face and in an objective way it would come out like this,

you are a cunt like entity devoid of any real quest for satisfaction, the complete toxic event looming in the sky like guilt with five studded questions that ask themselves over and over as the negatively charged ion super splices into a seeded cloud of temperature passion for climate controlling your anger in cumulus pouts

this changes nothing, it just sits there in the air like 3000 years.

vonnegut slowly nietches our concerns into a long trail of slack eyed movement, rearranging our brautigan all over the back wall of plath’s vagina as it's dug out a pile of soul parts by the lost memory of sexton’s throaty voice like robots clocking back and forth inside the deconstructed molecules of whitman’s mad soul.
a star machine creeps out and palahnuik’s silky hate just melts your laugh track into a bending statue of truth so raw it’s hard to vomit, instead, you collect stats that turn your invisible into a venn diagram with most of you inside the middle parts.
it’s a fully detached uterus causing hysteria,

and we can name that tune in three notes, spin the wheel till our universal studio is a sparkling blur given to the ether in the form of a quiz question that must be answered in the form of a question which secretly sums up every single frown on this entire planet that isn't wrapped around a corpse's face which is still the imprint moment of release reflecting the last time any of us
REALLY
ate a cone of ice cream like it was the whole day.

Assraped by a Crazy Poetry Bitch (Part 2)

I'd never been propositioned so directly before and had a hard time mustering words to respond to her request. Plus I was already a tad drunk by this point. Next thing I knew, though, she grabbed me by the arm and flung me out of my seat and dragged me out of the pub, into the pouring rain. As the door shut behind us, I could see Scooby and her cheerleader friend, laughing and pointing at me, in stitches at the whole situation.

“Think you might want to put on some shoes,” I pointed out, noting her bare feet sloshing through the dirty brown puddles lining the Manchester streets, as we made our way to who knows where.

“The ancient Macedonians didn't need shoes, did they?!” She snapped back at me. I didn't bother to mention that they probably at least had sandals or something.

She continued to pull me down the street, still by my arm, until we reached a hot pink Smart Car, which had a pretty good gash on its tiny hood.

“Grraahhh!!” she shrieked in a retard-like howl, upon witnessing the damage. She opened up the driver's side door for a split second and subsequently slammed it. Apparently she didn't bother to lock her doors. It was a Smart Car, after all. I guess if someone wanted to steal it, they could just pick it up and carry it away.

She then shoved me into the car and walked backwards, in a cricle around the car, keeping an eye on me and pointing at the sky the whole time. After yelling some curse words at a random pedestrian, she got inside the vehicle, pulled out a screwdriver from the glove compartment, jammed it into the ignition, and ground the engine to a start.

I was starting to think maybe she'd stolen the car, which she may have, but it also occurred to me she might not be the type of person who could handle the responsibility of carrying around a car key. Maybe the screwdriver was easier for her.

She peeled out and drove only a block up the street and parked the car in the middle of the sidewalk, knocking over a couple trash cans and scattering a few stray cats. Getting out of the car, she pulled me out, carjacker style, threw me over her shoulder and carried me up four flights of stairs, up to her flat, which wasn't locked, either.

Her flat was tiny. And I mean tiny. Only a small room with a kitchenette in the back. The once-white paint on the room's walls was moldy and peeling and the whole place reeked like an unhealthy concoction of sandalwood incense, Chinese food, and old shoes. Funny enough, though, it had an enormous red velvet couch, which practically took up the whole room.

The poetry lady flung me down on the couch, pointed at me, with an agitated expression, and disappeared into the bathroom.

Looking around her flat, I noticed there was a huge ball of hash on a coffee table adjacent to the couch, next to a large glass crackpipe, which was lying on the floor. Not wanting to let the hash go to waste, I picked up and packed a fat wad into the pipe, took a few hits, and was a bit shocked when I realized the floor was covered, practically flooded, with books, all types of books, from Agatha Christie, Chinese poetry (in Chinese), Kurt Vonnegut, even Dr. Phil. Guess I didn't figure her for that much of a reader.

A couple minutes later the poetry lady emerged completely naked. Except for a massive strap-on dildo and a long silver hunting rifle.